


Slow Moving Target

by owlpockets



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-04-04 18:42:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4148724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlpockets/pseuds/owlpockets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rude, bro.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slow Moving Target

**Author's Note:**

> After seeing Age of Ultron and Pietro in those godawful tracksuits antagonizing Clint, I thought it was a hilarious parallel with the tracksuit bros of Fraction's Hawkeye comics fame. Hilarious to me, anyway. This isn't so much a complete story as a series of funny scenes loosely retelling AoU in Hawkguy-verse. The summary should have been "live coverage of a dumpster fire," because oh my god this thing is a hot mess.

"You didn't see that coming?"

No, no he really did not. The gist of Tracksuit strategy was that they were numerous, with three main recruiting criteria: 1) using a blunt weapon (but not necessarily hitting the target), 2) ambiguously Eastern European, and 3) the ability to say "bro" and "seriously" ten times fast in English.

The recruiting criteria seemed to have changed. Clint was in trouble. So yeah, it's Monday.

__

"You didn't -"

"Don't you say it, you piece of shit," Clint growled from where he had been upended in a dumpster and was now struggling to climb out. There was week-old omelet in his hair and his foot was caught in a dirty bucket, ankle twisted at an unnatural angle. 

The guy crossed his arms and just watched. If there was a glint of pity in his pale eyes, well, Clint was not having any of that.

"Look, if you're getting paid to just piss me off, it’s working. Go collect your bonus," Clint's hand closed on a small block of wood in the dumpster, feeling its balance and heft carefully. 

"It’s not so hard, you know. Slow moving tar—”

Clint beaned him in the head with the block so hard his head whipped around before he dropped. There was a spatter of blood. Served him right, the quick little bastard. “Yeah, bet you didn’t see _that_ coming.” Clint climbed out of the dumpster and limped home.

__

Clint walked out of the bodega, biting into the enormous burrito he had purchased for lunch. The owner always set an extra special one aside for him after he had accidentally thwarted a robbery one afternoon. This was a perfect burrito, he could write poetry about this burrito and Clint did not even like poetry. He opened his mouth for a second bite and chomped down on his own tongue instead. The burrito, his _perfect burrito_ was completely missing from his hand. Clint looked down, thinking he had dropped it without realizing, but there was nothing at his feet.

Confused, Clint looked up and felt a sharp pang of anxiety clutch his chest when he saw the same guy that had been antagonizing him for the better part of two weeks leaning against the building and eating his food. There was a bandage on his head above a black eye where Clint had knocked him out three days ago. At first he had the urge to laugh hysterically, but then he had the urge to apologize extensively because his ankle was still fucked to hell and he would definitely lose this fight. Instead Clint said, “That’s mine,” weakly.

“I don’t see your name on it.” The burrito was quickly disappearing, all but swallowed whole. Clint figured that running at such high speeds probably burned through a lot of calories.

“Actually it is.” Clint winced. Just let it go, idiot. Get another one.

The guy looked at the foil wrapped and laughed. “This says Hawkdude.”

“I’m gonna put an arrow between your eyes one of these days. You know that?” Clint could feel the frustration tightening at the back of his skull, squeezing his brains and his judgment.

With a cross between amusement and mild offense tingeing his expression, the guy disappeared before Clint could make a move to grab the food. Not that it would have ended in his favor. “Aw, burrito, no,” Clint groaned.

__

“AW, COME ON,” Clint shouted after his third stolen meal in as many weeks. “I pay good money for those! Buy your own goddamn burritos!”

“This is easier. No cash.” The guy shrugged. He was sitting on a fire escape, feet dangling just out of Clint’s reach without a lot of pathetic jumping. 

“I was serious about shooting you. I’ve shot a lot of your little bros already,” Clint reminded him. He needed to start carrying his bow out on errands sometimes to make good on these threats.

“So why haven’t you?” There was no teasing this time, but rather what appeared to be genuine curiosity.

Clint honestly didn’t know the answer to that; the bow was inconsequential if he wanted to do some damage on the fly. Instead of answering he made the gesture of shooting his bow and walked away.

“That’s not an answer!” The guy yelled after him, plainly amused. “Do you like me or something?”

__

 

The fourth time Clint stopped in the bodega, he brought the dog along and bought two burritos. Both were stolen out of his hand within minutes of stepping out the door before Lucky could even think about barking. “Really. What do you need two for?”

Instead of pocketing or eating the spare, Clint’s obnoxious nemesis silently handed it off to a young woman emerging around the corner of the alleyway. She wasn’t wearing a tracksuit, but a plain black dress and boots that had clearly seen better days. There was something unsettlingly familiar about her face.

Clint blinked deliberately, though the day his eyes failed him would be the day he quit life altogether. Twins, goddamn twins. There were two of them. Lucky wagged his tail. Clint groaned. “Really.”

The next time Clint bought three and found himself with one left over. He didn’t know if that was an interesting development or if they were just fucking with him, lulling him into a false sense of security. The latter would be so much easier.

__

_Or something_. Like was definitely the wrong sentiment, but Clint didn’t hate the guy either, or at least hated him less than he hated Tracksuits collectively. One of their least redeeming qualities was running away every time a bigger enemy showed up (like an army of murderous robots), leaving Clint to deal with the new threat alone, a clear demonstration of how they did jack shit for the city at large. 

But this one, this one stayed.  
__

"Okay, this...this looks bad. I know—" Clint slipped down the last two steps as he chased after Kate. "Katie Kate, hold still for...oof…a minute...." He tripped on the coffee table trying to get to her.

“Uh huh.” Kate was picking up her bag off the counter while that fucking traitor of a dog swirled around her feet. “There is nothing you can say right now that I’m going to believe.”

“There were evil robots. This guy…he took a bullet for me, okay? What was I supposed to do, leave him to bleed out in the street? No one wants to die in an ugly tracksuit, Kate.” Clint chanced a lopsided grin that faded quickly.

“I don’t know…yes?” Kate had absolute judgment written in the set of her eyebrows as she stared him down. Then she turned and held the door open for Lucky. “Your habit of picking up strays is getting really fucking weird. Call me when you sort out your shit.”

The door slammed behind her and Clint pressed his hands into his eye sockets. “She took the futzing dog again,” he mumbled.

“Was that your girlfriend?”

“Christ, no.” Clint looked up at the ashen face leaning over the railing of his loft and considered Kate’s concerns. And shot them out the window because the guy looked like a walking corpse. Yeah, that was the only reason, sure. “What the hell is your name, anyway?” 

“Pietro.” He slipped down to sit on the floor, leaning his forehead against the railing with closed eyes. “I’m hungry, go get me some burritos.”

“Rude, bro.”

__

So yeah, they hooked up. Another Monday.


End file.
